


Brothers of Addicts

by solrosan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A version of Reichenbach, Co-addiction, Drug Addiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/pseuds/solrosan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock finds out that Mary has died he decides to disregard the ultimatum John put down three years ago and come to visit him, forcing John to decide if he wants to risk reentering a co-addiction or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To celebrate the filming of Series 3 I decided to upload my first ever Sherlock fanfiction (and my only attempt to do a Reichenbach reunion) to AO3. 
> 
> Some parts have been beta-read, some parts haven't, all parts have been slightly re-written, since it was originally posted in 2011.

It was freezing, as if most of England had been cheated out of that global warming thing that everyone seemed so worried about. Al Gore didn’t know what he was talking about, John thought, when walking home from the bus stop, hands deep in his pockets.

Turning the corner to the street where he lived, he saw someone sitting on his doorstep. The first thing jumping into his head was a wish that it wouldn’t be a dead hobo. A moment later, when he was sure that wasn’t the case, he felt slightly bad for that thought. But then he recognised the man.

It couldn’t be.

Was it…?

“Sherlock?” He said in disbelief, stopping a few steps away. Sherlock – of course it was Sherlock, no one else would sit outside in this cold – looked almost hypothermic. John wondered how long he had been sitting there, and why he had done it.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Sherlock asked, shivering, when he noticed John. 

John was dumbstruck.

“Or text me? Or e-mail me?” Sherlock went on when he didn’t get an answer, not moving anything in other than his lips. For a moment John actually thought he had been frozen solid. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you… what?” John asked, still not quite recovered from the surprise of seeing Sherlock.

“Mary.”

“Oh.”

John closed his eyes for a moment, took a breath to gather himself properly, but he still only managed to shrug when looking back at Sherlock. 

“You’re going to get ill,” John said, finally taking the last steps to his front door. “Let’s go inside. I can make some tea….” 

Sherlock got to his feet without a word; John was surprised he didn’t hear ice cracking in the process. John placed his keys on the bureau just inside the door, but after that he stopped with his back to Sherlock.

“How did you find out?” he asked, the hollowness of his voice made the question sound like a macabre parody of all the times when he had asked Sherlock to explain a crime scene for him.

“Mycroft told me.”

John turned around, more surprised by the lack of venom in Sherlock’s voice at the confession than by the fact that Mycroft Holmes knew that Mary had died. He had since long accepted that there was nothing to do about Mycroft and his nosiness, because life often became much simpler when one didn’t fight unbeatable forces. The only question was probably _why_ Mycroft still bothered keeping an eye on him; it was almost a decade since he moved away from Sherlock.

As they looked at each other, John realised that he didn’t care why Mycroft had told Sherlock about Mary, but he was strangely glad he had. And it was somewhat assuring that Sherlock and Mycroft still had regular contact, even if John hadn’t heard from any of the brothers in three years. 

“Are you clean?” John asked, wearily.

“By your definition?”

“By anyone’s definition.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. “No.”

John sighed, considering for a split second to force Sherlock out on the street again. But seeing how long Sherlock had been sitting outside just to see him in the first place, John wasn’t sure throwing him out would make him leave.

“Are you on something right now?” He asked instead.

“No.”

John peered at Sherlock for a long time before deciding that he wanted to believe him, and that the rest didn’t matter right now. He went to the kitchen, mumbling about putting on that tea. 

“Is that why you didn’t tell me?” Sherlock asked from the doorway. “The cocaine?”

John put two mugs on the counter, avoiding looking at Sherlock. “Do you still take sugar in your tea?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” John mumbled, but it took a moment before he managed to continue making the tea.

There was no good answer to Sherlock’s question, at least not an easy one. Sherlock’s drug use was part of the reason he hadn’t told him about Mary, but it wasn’t as simple as that. Or maybe it was? John poured water in the mugs to still the sudden anger he felt when he realised how much he had needed the old Sherlock these last months.

When they had got Mary’s cancer diagnosis seven months ago Sherlock had been far from John’s mind. He hadn’t been on his mind for years, because three years ago John had given Sherlock an ultimatum: his company or the drugs. At the time he hadn’t planned to follow it through, but since Sherlock had called him on it he had felt compelled to prove him wrong, forbidding Sherlock to contact him unless he became drug free.

For almost two years before that he, along with Mycroft, had fought against Sherlock’s increased drug use. John still didn’t know how and when it had started to go downhill for Sherlock, but three years after John and Mary had married he had stopped taking cases. John had blamed himself for not noticing the growing addiction earlier, because if he hadn’t moved out, if he hadn’t got married, then maybe it wouldn’t have got this far out of hand.

Therefore had standing his ground on the ultimatum almost killed him at first. But Sherlock had kept his distance, too proud to go where he wasn’t wanted, and as years passed by life had got in the way. 

During Mary’s last few days, when they had stopped aggressive treatment and only given her morphine to control the pain, John had actually thought of Sherlock. It hadn’t really surprised him that the dark thoughts about ending Mary’s suffering with a morphine overdoes had made his mind jump to Sherlock, but it was not reason enough to get back in touch. Sitting next to Mary’s deathbed John hadn’t known or cared if Sherlock was even still alive.

There was no way he could boil all that down to a simple yes-or-no-answer to give Sherlock.

John put the tea down in front of Sherlock. He looked terrible, John thought, he was so skinny that a whiff of the wind easily would blow him off a bridge. The circles under his eyes told stories about insomnia and the once so thick hair seemed thin and dead. Clean though. Actually, all of Sherlock looked remarkably clean, there wasn’t even much dirt on his shoes. John wondered why it couldn’t go beyond the surface.

They drank the tea in silence. John did his best not to look at Sherlock, but he was pretty sure Sherlock was scrutinising him.

“John… I’m sorry…”

The softness in Sherlock’s voice made John look up from the now-empty mug. There was softness in Sherlock’s face as well, almost in his whole being.

“For everything,” Sherlock continued, making John’s eyes tear up and flood over.

He did nothing to hide it, Sherlock had most likely seen him cry more than most people, and he had even seen Sherlock cry twice. Between them tears had never been something that needed to be hidden. Over the last weeks, John had started to cry over seemingly random and small things: a TV-commercial, a chicken curry sandwich, the arrival of the mail…. This was neither random nor small. This was… John had no idea what this was. 

Sherlock reached out his almost claw-like thin hand and touched his arm. John looked at it as if he wasn’t quite sure what Sherlock was doing. Not even when they had lived together had they comforted each other with physical contact.

“Is there anything I can do?” Sherlock wondered.

John opened his mouth to say no, to use the polite and expected answer he gave everyone else. Instead he suddenly hesitated and took Sherlock’s hand.

“Get clean,” he said, meeting Sherlock’s confused eyes. “My definition of clean.”

After what looked like a short internal debate, Sherlock nodded. “Okay.” 

John blinked. “Really?” he whispered.

“Yes. If it would make you feel better.”

The sincerity in Sherlock’s voice made John sob and he nodded. It would make him feel better, not concerning Mary’s death, but about life in general.

“Then you have my word,” Sherlock said, sounding very ceremonial. John wasn’t sure he trusted him, but he still couldn’t believe Sherlock was even there. So he nodded, deciding about better judgement to believe him.

“Do… do you think you need help?” John asked, wiping his eyes.

“Probably, yes, but I’ll call Mycroft.” Sherlock made a small frown. “He’ll be more than delighted.”

“He cares about you,” John said as a low echo from the past.

“I care about you,” Sherlock replied, making it sound like a contradiction. John had no idea how that was possible, but Sherlock looked like an insulted five-year-old when he said it.

John didn’t know what to say even if it felt as if the correct response to that was that he, of course, cared about Sherlock as well. He had cared so much for Sherlock. Sherlock had been one of the few people in the world that John would have given his life to protect. But would he still? Did he still care like he used to? It felt like three decades had passed instead of just three years. 

John noticed a slight tremor in Sherlock’s free hand, and he reached out to take that hand as well. Sherlock lowered his head, and suddenly John knew the answer to his questions: he still cared. And it felt good. In the middle of the sorrow he had been living for the last weeks, it felt nice to care about something. To have a problem to solve, to focus on, instead of just grieving.

“I… suppose, I’ve got things to do,” Sherlock said when he looked up at John again after a moment. He tried to make it sound matter-of-fact, but it just came out detached. 

“Yeah,” John agreed, letting go of Sherlock’s hands even though he didn’t want to. It was nice to have some physical contact other than a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Should I call you a cab?”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock said, taking out his phone. “I’ll text Mycroft. He could just as well start being of use right away.”

“Tell him thanks from me,” John asked, smiling faintly. “I appreciate that you came.”

“Are you going to be all right by yourself?” Sherlock wondered giving him a concerned glance while texting.

“Yes,” John said, sounding more confident than he felt, but that was his standard answer for that question. “You just try to take care of yourself, all right?”

“Is it…” Sherlock trailed off when he got a text and didn’t look back up after reading it. “Can I contact you again when I’m clean?” 

“Yes, yes of course.” John nodded, and got on his feet at the same time as Sherlock to walk him to the door. He almost said that Sherlock could contact him either way, but he didn’t see how that would help either of them. “And if you need any help… That’s okay too, you know.”

“You can call me whenever,” Sherlock said, as if trying to assure that if John got widowed again he would remember to call Sherlock. John tried to smile, but it was too hard. Instead he hugged him.

“Thank you for coming here,” John murmured, voice getting thick with tears. “Please get clean. I want you in my life Sherlock, I do, I…” 

“I will,” Sherlock said as they let go. “And then I’ll text you.”

John smiled, wanting to believe him so badly that he did. When he just minutes later saw Sherlock getting in the black car Mycroft had sent, he wondered if he actually would get a text from Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

_I’m sorry.  
SH_

John threw his phone across the room. It wasn’t very productive he had to admit, the phone was hardly to blame for the message it received. A typical case of don’t-kill-the-messenger and John had failed. But at least this phone didn’t break into a million different pieces like his old one. 

Disappointed beyond words, John got up to fetch the phone. He tried to tell himself that he should have known better. Really. This wasn’t the first time he had sent an addict to rehab. It wasn’t even the first time he had sent this particular addict to rehab. But it didn’t make the disappointment easier to swallow. 

“I know, I know,” he muttered, looking up and expecting Mary to stand there, giving him a sympathetic look, but Mary wasn’t there. She wasn’t there and she would never be there again. Last Monday it had been three months since she died. 

John stared at the empty spot where he had expected his wife to be, feeling the disappointment subside and the emptiness come back. He looked back down at his phone, reading Sherlock’s apology again. He really should have known better, but Sherlock’s unexpected visit two months ago had brought him hope. Stupid, groundless hope. A naive dream of resuming his since-long-abandoned bachelor life and restoring a friendship he blamed himself for ending.

Stupid hope, stupid dream. Stupid Sherlock! 

He threw his phone again, this time hard into the ground, but it still wouldn’t break.

Stupid phone.

* * *

Two days later John shut the door right in front of (what he can only assume to be) one of Mycroft’s little helpers without even listening to why she was there. John reasoned that if one of the Holmes brothers had disappointed him, then he wasn’t going to give the other one a chance to do the same. Not that Mycroft _could_ disappoint him, but at the moment it felt like a sane argument.

Three door-slammings (and one pretty nasty scolding) later, John gave up. He always did, he had never been as stubborn as either of the brothers. Frustratingly enough they both knew it and used it to their advantage. So the fifth time one of Mycroft’s minions knocked on the door John followed, wondering why he hadn’t given up sooner.

That was also the first question Mycroft asked him when they met. 

“It’s more fun this way?” John suggested, but neither of them seemed amused. 

John had been brought to what he thought was Mycroft’s actual office. He had been here two times during the intervention-years and had drawn his conclusion from the photograph of a young Mycroft and an even younger Sherlock standing in the bookshelf. It didn’t feel like something Mycroft would put anywhere. John had often wondered if Sherlock had a similar photo somewhere.

“I hope you didn’t mind that I told Sherlock about your wife.”

John shook his head without a word. He wouldn’t admit it to Mycroft, but it did something to a person’s ego to know that one of the most powerful people in the country looked after you and cared about you. Even if the way of showing it was to send a drug addicted brother to one’s doorstep.

“Good.” Mycroft nodded slightly. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Are you really?” John asked, feeling an unwelcomed gratitude towards Mycroft for being able to ask him what he wanted to ask every single person who told him they were sorry.

“Yes, John, I really am.” Mycroft pointed him to a chair, before sitting down behind his desk. He looked tired, perhaps even a bit ill. Actually, John noted, he reminded him of Sherlock when he hadn’t slept for days.

“I’ve been told that you know about Sherlock’s latest failure.” The statement sounded almost like a question.

“He texted me,” John said, nodding.

“Ah yes,” Mycroft said, nodding as well. “I must say I was surprised when I got his text two months ago.”

“But you’re not surprised about the result.”

“No, I’m actually more surprised that he’s still alive,” Mycroft muttered in an unusual moment of honesty before he cleared his throat and became more business-like again. “I’m sorry I got you involved in this again, it was not my intention when I told him about your wife.”

“Apparently it’s your intention now, though, otherwise you’d just left me alone.” John had a rising suspicion that he would have been better off shoving doors in the face of Mycroft’s bond servants for the rest of his life. 

“Yes, I wish you would,” Mycroft said without blinking.

“Brutal honesty suits you,” John commented, a bit taken aback by it.

“It suits everyone,” Mycroft said. “Some people just can’t distinguish between when it’s rude and when it’s necessary.”

John waited for something more, for an explanation to why Mycroft wanted him involved now or a suggestion about how it would work, or just anything. But Mycroft just sat there quietly, watching him.

“I can’t reward his behaviour with my company,” John finally said, using the same argument on Mycroft that he had used on himself so many times that he almost believed it. It was a textbook advice for friends and family to addicts of any kind: you need to show that there is something to lose by using and your company is often the only leverage you have. “Maybe you should think about that too.”

“You know perfectly well why I can’t do that.”

“No, I don’t know that.” 

“Yes, you do,” Mycroft said. “John, as one brother of an addict to another, how many last chances have you given Harriet?”

John’s heart sank and he answered without even needing to think about it. “Seven.”

“I’ve given Sherlock five,” Mycroft said.

John nodded, feeling terrible for suggesting that Mycroft should cut his brother off. 

There was a long silence, far too long, during which John got the distinct feeling that Mycroft was trying to read his thought. To make him stop, John almost asked what memories made it impossible for him to remove his hand from Sherlock. If it was sandcastles, and rugby games, and Christmas mornings, like the memories he had with Harry. He almost asked if Mycroft missed his childhood brother as much as he missed his childhood sister.

“Was he, was he at least close this time?” John asked instead. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said, nodding. “I have never seen him so motivated before. Quite frankly, I have never seen him motivated at all when it comes to this before. He said it was the only way to help you, though he didn’t really seem to understand how.”

John couldn’t help smiling. “No, he wouldn’t, would he?”

“No,” Mycroft agreed, smiling briefly before taking a deep breath. “Please, John, talk to him again. For me.”

The request wasn’t unexpected, but it took John by surprise. He couldn’t recall Mycroft ever asking for anything before. Not like this. Mycroft was pleading, almost begging, him to do something for _him_ , not for Sherlock.

Instinctively he shook his head. “My wife just died.”

“I know.”

John rubbed his face, looking everywhere but at Mycroft. He couldn’t bring himself to say yes even though he knew he would never be able to leave this chair if he didn’t. Not just because he was less stubborn than the man behind the desk, but also because he wanted Sherlock to get clean almost as much as Mycroft did.

God, how much he hated Mycroft Holmes right now. 

“Do you know where he is?” John finally asked when he could bring himself to look at Mycroft again.

“Yes.”

John wet his lip, and then he nodded. The decision was made, now he just needed to convince himself that it was the right one.

“If you can convince him to talk to me, then I’ll talk to him,” John promised. “I won’t go after him, or track him down.”

“I understand.” Mycroft nodded. “Thank you. If there’s ever anything I can do, please tell me.”

“A bedroom at Buckingham Palace would be nice,” said John, getting up to leave before Mycroft would convince him to do something else unpleasant. 

Mycroft almost smiled, getting to his feet as well to walk him to the door. “Come to me when Harriet needs a new liver.” 

John stared at him. “Let’s hope it’ll never come to that.”

“Let’s.” Mycroft almost smiled again, looking as if he had offered John a coffee and not an internal organ. “A car will take you home, and I’ll be in touch if Sherlock agrees.”

“Do that.” 

John nodded good bye, wondering if he should tell Mycroft that he too hoped it would work this time. Because he did hope that, and even without the Holmes’ ability to read people he knew Mycroft wanted few things more than that. He decided not to, not quite ready to address the fact that he knew all too well how it felt constantly worrying about a siblings addiction.

Hoping or not, John didn’t even reach the car before he started to desperately wish that Mycroft wouldn’t call after all.

* * *

Every time his phone rang during the next couple of days John almost jumped out of his skin. Luckily not many people called him otherwise his nerves would have collapsed. He waited in a mixed state of excitement and fear. At times it felt like there was no way in hell Sherlock would agree to talk to him, and those times he was convinced that it would be the best for his personal sanity. Other times he was just as sure that Mycroft was going to be persuasive enough to talk Sherlock into meeting with John, and those times he was sure that outcome would be the absolute best thing. 

The waiting was the worst. The not knowing.

Eleven days after his meeting with Mycroft John got a text:

_Fuck you!  
SH_

Before he had even figured out the meaning of it he got a second one:

_Correction: Fuck both_  
of you!  
SH 

Instead of being disappointed this time, John smiled. Not because it was funny, at all. It was nothing but tragic and stupid. Still he smiled, because Sherlock had felt the need to let him know that he knew that he conspired with Mycroft. The part of him that smiled tried to convince him to text back – just a _Fuck you too!_ or something equally mature – but he didn’t. Instead the smile faded and he tossed the phone back on the table. 

What now?

Technically this freed him from his promise to Mycroft, and he wished he would be able to let it go just like that. Even if walking away was the healthiest, most sane thing to do, he wasn’t sure his conscience would ever forgive him for doing that again. Not that it was much to let go of, Sherlock wasn’t part of his life anymore. But as a perverted re-run of when he came back from Afghanistan Sherlock had shown up when John was sad and lonely, offering to fill the emptiness and ruin the routine. Last time, when he had been back from Afghanistan, it had been welcomed and exciting. This time it was neither.

_Correction: Fuck both_  
of you!  
SH 

John looked at the text again, wondering what Mycroft had done trying to persuade Sherlock to talk to him. Clearly Mycroft hadn’t done it in person, if he had, Sherlock wouldn’t have had to correct himself. He would have got it right the first time. 

_Fuck both of you!_

Mycroft had looked so tired, his voice had been so pleading, when he’d asked for help. John had never seen or heard Mycroft like that, and for the first time he realised just exactly how much Sherlock hurt his brother. It didn’t matter if Mycroft had let it show to manipulate him, or if he hadn’t manage to keep up the façade, because John knew it was real. If it was one thing he could relate to, it was that.

Admittedly Harry’s drinking was nothing compared to Sherlock’s drug addiction. Alcoholism was almost a social accepted addiction, while cocaine was illegal. John hated the mix of acceptance and stigma that came with his sister’s alcoholism. He hated that alcohol was legal, and could be bought everywhere, but drinking too much was still shameful.

Cocaine was different, there was nothing social acceptable about that. For that reason no one would offer cocaine at a wedding, there was no threat of someone offering it because they didn’t know any better. Yet hardly no one would be sympathetic to a cocaine addiction.

John rubbed his face, was he really comparing addictions? How stupid. Every addict had their own troubles and demons and every friend or family member to an addict had their own personal hell in their co-addiction. John shared his co-addiction towards Harry with one person: Harry’s ex-wife Clara. It was a strange relief to not be alone even though John and Clara only met during the worst possible circumstances these days. John had a strong feeling Mycroft was all alone in his co-addiction after John left. He knew Mycroft didn’t blame him for walking away, just like John wouldn’t blame Clara if she did, but he felt stupid suggesting that Mycroft should cut Sherlock off as well. 

He felt like an arse for not realising this before, and he suddenly knew exactly what he had to do. He sighed, regretting his decision right away, but he couldn’t change his mind. He would do this again, he was going to try help Sherlock get clean. Not for Sherlock’s sake, not to occupy his own mind to not think of Mary, but for Mycroft’s sake. 

It was a really weird thought, an even weirder feeling. Never in his wildest dreams had he even considered doing something this huge for Mycroft. But he felt he had to, as one brother of an addict helping another.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft was in a meeting (nothing overly important, domestic school funds) when he got a surprisingly colourful text from his brother. It wasn’t uncharacteristic for Mycroft to have one eye on his phone during meeting conducted in English, it was however very unlike him to have a visible reaction to the information he got. None of the neatly dressed men and women around the table noticed it, but Mycroft could feel how his whole body got tense and how disappointment came flowing over him like a tsunami. 

The disappointment wasn’t aimed at the failure per se, but at himself for hoping that things would be different this time. Hope made people foolish and Mycroft was ashamed of his stupidity. It was frustrating how naive he got when it came to Sherlock just because he wanted things to be better than they were.

Mycroft put all of that aside for now. Sherlock was an ever existing problem, but it didn’t mean it could take up all his time. Domestic school funds was the problem, literally, on the table at the moment and it deserved his attention.

Later in the afternoon Mycroft arranged for someone to find out where Sherlock was. He always slept better when he knew where his younger brother dwelled, even if it happened to be under a bridge somewhere. He also sent John Watson a quick thought, but nothing more, as Mycroft assumed Sherlock had told him off by text as well. Mycroft was, in a bizarre way, thankful that his brother was such a good pick-pocket, because it meant he wouldn’t sell his phone to get drug money.

Around midnight, when Mycroft got into his car to catch a late flight to Frankfurt, he got a notification through his PA that they had eyes on Sherlock. That was good news, the European economy needed his full attention and he wouldn’t be able to bring that if Sherlock had been lost. There was no more news about Sherlock during Mycroft’s time on the continent. That was also good: no news meant status quo. His people still knew where Sherlock was and Sherlock didn’t do anything stupider than usual. 

Mycroft didn’t have time to deal with Sherlock until three days after returning to London. He printed all the information his sources had put together (he still preferred reading on paper even if all his files were digitalised nowadays) and sat down in an armchair, far away from his desk. It wasn’t a very interesting read: Sherlock had been good, not even his cocaine purchases had been high. Then there wasn’t much for Mycroft to do in that area. Sherlock would need at least a month after this fiasco before he would accept any kind of contact from his older brother.

Mycroft briefly flipped through the thin file he had printed on John Watson, but, as he had imagined, there were even less interesting points there. The good doctor seemed to go on with his life as normal. That was… good, Mycroft supposed. 

The paper shredder next to the armchair chewed up the information about his brother and Dr Watson faster than he could feed it. Perhaps it was time to call off the surveillance of John Watson. It had been cruel to ask him to get involved again to start with, but he didn’t feel guilty about asking, he couldn’t pass on an opportunity to have Sherlock see reason. The less he knew about John’s life, though, the less he could tell Sherlock, and it would be kinder to just leave the man alone.

Yes, Mycroft decided, heaving himself to his feet, he would cease the surveillance first thing tomorrow. Tonight he was merely going to send John an e-mail, thanking for the attempt to help, informing him that the surveillance would stop, and telling him that the offer concerning the liver still stood.

* * *

By the trouble Mycroft had understanding the content of the e-mail he’d received you would think it was written in traditional Chinese and not English. It was forwarded to him from his PA, because that was the address Mycroft had used to write John yesterday.

The e-mail read:

_Thank you for my privacy, but have no need for it. Forgot what it feels like to have it and what to do with it._

_Please stop talking about Harry’s liver. I do appreciate the sentiment, but she’s been sober for almost a year and I want to imagine a world where she stays that way._

_I had actually expected you to contact me sooner. I have no ways to contact you anymore, and I was about two days from jumping up and down in front of a camera just to get your attention. What I wanted to say was that if you need any help with Sherlock in the future you can contact me. I suspect you have my number already, so just give me a call._

_Best regards  
John_

Mycroft had an urge to send for John, but it would be irrational. He had no actual reason to talk to the man, and he needed to be at Westminster in an hour. That was more important than his sudden gratitude towards John Watson.

Instead he pressed reply and wrote:

_Thank you._

_There will be no need to get my attention by CCTV. If anything would present itself, please respond to this e-mail, it goes directly to my inbox._

_MH_

That was much unexpected. And appreciated. Mycroft had not seen that coming, but he liked that there were still people out there that could surprise him. John didn’t reply to the second e-mail, but Mycroft hadn’t expected him too.

* * *

It didn’t matter that it was just eleven days before Christmas, the sound of his PA’s steps approaching in haste was always an omen of doom. The woman was otherwise very put together and he had only heard her raise her voice once during the decade she had been working for him – the day she lost her father in a plane crash. The fast clicking of heels had been the foregoer of natural disasters like hurricane Katrina in the USA and the tsunami outside Japan, economic crises following bursting of what-ever-current bubble, and most recently a North Korean rocket launch. 

Mycroft wondered why she never was in this kind of a hurry to bring him good new.

“Sir,” the woman said, a bit short of breath, after closing the door and he confirmed with a slight nod that he was listening even if he wasn’t looking. “Your brother’s in the A&E.”

Mycroft stared at her. A feeling, almost unknown to him, speared through his body. It was panic, and for a short moment it paralyzed him. Sherlock’s problem was just another thing he left at the office when he went home, it had been with him for so long that he had stopped expecting change. In any direction.

“Is he—”

“He’s alive,” said his PA quickly. 

Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Always start with that,” he mumbled. “Always.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Mycroft rubbed his face, taking a deep breath and centring himself again. First when he looked back at his assistant he realised that she, too, was distressed by the news about Sherlock.

“Is it an overdose?” he asked, opening his day planner to see if he had time to go to the hospital.

“No, sir, hypothermia.”

“Hypothermia?” Mycroft looked back up with a frown. “Who was on him?”

“Feldmann.”

“Who found him?”

“Schubert.”

Mycroft made a small note about who would spend the remaining part of his life picking litter of the pavement in Oymyakon, Russia, and who would get a huge Christmas bonus.

“Please reschedule my meeting with the Ministry of Justice,” he told her, going back to his planner.

“This is the reschedule meeting; you cancelled three days ago,” she reminded him. 

If Mycroft had been a man prone to profanities he would have used a string of them right now, because that meeting was the only thing even remotely possible to cancel today. He couldn’t reschedule the Prime Minister’s meeting with the Dutch Prime Minister and he needed to be there, because he didn’t trust Anne de Graaf – the Dutch version of himself.

“Bring me some tea, please,” he said with a defeated sigh and added just before she left: “And updated information.”

When he was alone again he felt a sting of despair as he realised that he had, for a few second, thought he had lost his only sibling and felt relief. A big part of the panic had been covering relief and he understood that only because that same part was now disappointed. It was nauseating. 

Before he had managed to gather himself completely he took out his private mobile where he kept John Watson’s phone number. Despite the good doctor’s offer, Mycroft had gone out of his way to not involve him. Not that there had been that much to involve him in – one arrest and a close-to-eviction – but still. Mycroft didn’t want to ask John for help any more than John wanted to ask for a liver for Harriet, living in the denial that everything was all right was pleasant.

Today it didn’t look like he had much choice. There was no way he was going to let Sherlock be alone at the hospital, mainly because he never stayed for very long if no one was there telling him to.

“Dr John Watson?” he asked when John answered. Mycroft recognised the voice immediately, but he had been taught it was polite to ask anyway.

“ _Yes, this is he._ ” 

“Mycroft Holmes,” he introduced himself, waving at his assistant that she could come with the tea.

“ _Oh._ ”

John’s voice sounded muffled and distant. Mycroft wondered if this was his way of preparing for bad news. It was always so much harder to deduce state of mind over the phone.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“ _I’m at work, but it’s slow right now._ ”

“Does your offer to help concerning Sherlock still stand?”

“ _Yes, do you need anything?_ ”

Did _he_ need anything? Mycroft didn’t understand the question since this had always been a collaboration to help Sherlock. Not him. He dismissed it as poor phrasing and nothing else. 

“Sherlock is alive,” – always start with that – “but has been taken to the A&E with hypothermia.” 

“ _Okay._ ”

“I can’t get there until 1 o’clock tonight, at the earliest. Do you think you might be able to go there?”

There was a long silence. Mycroft waited patiently, it felt like a huge thing to ask for.

“ _I can be there in maybe two hours,_ ” said John without a trace of hesitation in his voice, but Mycroft assumed John had had an internal struggle during the extended silence.

“I would deeply appreciate it. Thank you.” Mycroft could hear his own voice tremble slightly with relief.

“ _Yeah, well…._ ” John sounded uncomfortable. “ _How are you?_ ” 

“I am fine.” Mycroft was bewildered by the seemingly random question. Very few people asked about him, being there questions about his health, whereabouts or thought. 

“ _If you say so,_ ” – Mycroft got the feeling John didn’t believe him – “ _Are you going to come by the hospital when you’re done, I don’t know, saving kittens from burning building?_ ”

Mycroft smiled. Stupid thing to smile about, but there was just something about the tone in John’s voice that made it sound ridiculous. Not to mention the fact that it _was_ ridiculous.

“Yes, when the kittens are safe I will come. Please keep him there until then.” It was amusing to think about the Dutch Prime minister and de Graaf as kittens, though not very amusing to think about 10 Downing Street on fire.

“ _Okay. I’ll make sure Sherlock stays until you get there._ ”

“Thank you.”

“ _Don’t mention it._ ”

They hung up and Mycroft felt a confusing sense of comfort seep into him. John was going to watch over Sherlock, he didn’t have to worry about his brother. He would, but he didn’t have to and hopefully he would be able to remind himself of that often enough to not be completely outwitted by Anne de Graaf. 

Sherlock’s timing had never been good, but hopefully this wouldn’t result in a national tragedy. Either way, having John Watson as support and backup had all of a sudden made his life much easier.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise in advance for the medical inaccuracies in this chapter.

The nurse, Sophia, according to her nametag, came in roughly every 45 minute to check on Sherlock. Each time she asked John if he wanted or needed anything, but John always answered, smiling – “Always smile when you talk to nurses,” one of his mentors had taught him – that everything was fine. Everything was just bloody perfect.

Four hours ago, when John had arrived at the hospital, he had been surprised to learn that he was listed as Sherlock’s doctor. He had been Sherlock’s doctor occasionally in the past, but never officially, and he strongly suspected Mycroft to be behind this. John didn’t mind, and it had given him access to Sherlock’s chart which was… practical, if nothing else.

When Sherlock had been brought to the A&E his body temperature had been 25.2o C, they’d told John, but now his temperature was back to normal. He’d suffered hypoglycaemia, but there were no signs that his internal organs had come to any harm and both blood pressure and heart rate were up. The second degree frostbite he had on his fingers and toes would become nasty, but it looked like he would be allowed to keep all of them.

John was both grateful and frustrated by this. It was great that Sherlock would come out of this without any lasting damage, but why was his stupidity repeatedly awarded with extreme luck? It didn’t seem fair that Sherlock got opportunity after opportunity start over in life, while Mary had just… died. 

Sherlock had come to for a short while, not seeming to realise where he was or that John was there, but he had been out ever since. In an attempt to at least pretend to play the part of Sherlock’s doctor – and to be able to give Mycroft proper information – John had ordered a list of tests, mostly toxicology. For a puppet master, Mycroft Holmes seemed to have much more personal influence than John had thought and everything John asked for was approved without questions.

John looked at the clock above the door, wishing Mycroft would come soon. Not so he could leave – even though he expected he would – but because he wanted Mycroft to know that it would be all right. John had texted him once, but it wasn’t the same as being able to confirm it yourself. Make perfectly sure that your sibling was safe another night. John wondered if Mycroft felt like a failure as an older brother as often as he did.

The longer John sat there, the more he lost interest in the hows, and whens, and whys of this mess. None of it really matter when it came down to it. On the sixth hour since he had arrived Sophia the nurse brought a folder with the test results with her when she came to check on Sherlock.

“I’m going off my shift now,” she said as she handed him the folder. “I just wanted to bring you the results first.”

“Thank you.”

“And there’s still nothing I else I can get you?”

“My glasses?” John said, smiling slightly. “No, I’m all right. Hurry home before anyone stops you.”

Sophia smiled at him, said good bye, and left him alone again. John tapped with his fingers on the folder, hesitating more than he thought he would. He looked at Sherlock, suddenly wishing for his former friend’s careless luck to save him from this as well. This was Sherlock after all, and there was no way _that_ test would be positive. But he knew what Sherlock was, and he knew what the statistics said, but he also knew the accuracy rate of the point-of-care tests, and the time it took to actually confirm it.

Armed with the stupid denial that it couldn’t happen to Sherlock he opened the folder. Halfway through the results he halted and he became cold from the inside out before becoming furiously warm.

“You bastard,” he mumbled. He turned to Sherlock, staring at him for a long time, before being able to turn back and go through the rest of the results. It was hard to actually focus on what it said though and he ended up just putting the folder down on the floor.

“Weren’t you supposed to be clever?” he asked Sherlock, shaking his head as he did. 

In Sherlock’s defence, there were some non-idiotic ways for this to have happened as well, but John thought it fairly reasonable to assume that everything in these test results was the result of needle sharing. What surprised John the most was how shocked he actually was. He had suspected Sherlock to have been an intravenous drug addict for years, making him highly overrepresented in the risk group for blood-transmitted diseases. The results shouldn’t be a surprise, at least not if he thought as a physician.

“Bastard,” John said again, wondering what on earth he had let himself be pulled back into. He thought about calling Mycroft, but he had the feeling that whatever was keeping Mycroft from being at his brother’s side was too important to interrupt. It wasn’t like any of them could do anything right now anyway.

Some minutes after 1 o’clock at night Mycroft – finally! – arrived to the hospital. John had been nodding off for the last hour or so, and was rather startled when Mycroft walked in. The older Holmes looked just barely less worn than his brother, his expression well composed, but his face grey and his eyes tired. He nodded once to John as a greeting before he turned to Sherlock, shaking his head ever so slightly.

“How did it go with the kittens?” John said, after letting Mycroft watch Sherlock in silence for a while.

“I think we might be at war with the Netherlands,” Mycroft said, wearily, after clearing his throat. He turned to John, putting down his suitcase and umbrella next to an empty chair.

“I’m joking,” he said when he saw the horror in John’s eyes. “But the tulip prices have most likely exploded.”

“I can live with that,” John said, feeling greatly uncomfortable. From what he could recall, Mycroft had never joked in his presence before. Not that this one had been a particularly good joke, but still.

John picked up the folder with the test results, handing it to Mycroft who didn’t take it.

“What did it show?” Mycroft asked, looking at the folder in an obvious attempt to avoid looking at John. Perhaps he was afraid to see the news in John’s face before he heard them.

“He has HIV.”

Mycroft became visibly tense, taking an extra breath before finally taking the folder from John.

“No hepatitis?”

“It doesn’t seem like it,” John said, watching Mycroft opening the folder. “But it’s—“

“Yes.”

“And the PoC-tests are—“

“Yes, I know.”

“It could be a false positive,” John said, because it didn’t matter that Mycroft knew it, he had to say it for himself.

Mycroft looked up at him, nothing but weariness in his face. “Do you really think so?”

“No.” John shook his head.

John wondered if Sherlock had considered this risk when he had started sharing needles with other addicts, if he had made a risk analysis and reached the conclusion that the high was worth it. Or if he had been so desperate for cocaine that it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

With a small sigh, Mycroft handed the folder back to John and sat down on the chair next to him. “I suppose you’ve noticed that I’ve put you down as his attending physician,” he said.

John nodded.

“It was mainly for the sake of tonight,” Mycroft continued, looking back at Sherlock. “But if you don’t have any objects, I would like you to stay on.”

“He’ll be the one with the objections,” John said, shaking his head. “And I’ve never planned or put up an HIV treatment. I really don’t think I’m the best person for it.”

“I’ll make sure you’ll have the best professional support you might need,” Mycroft said, and then he smiled a weary smile. “And would you really set him loose on another person?”

John mirrored his weary smile, shaking his head. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“You don’t have to make a decision tonight.”

“What decision?” John asked, still smiling wearily. “Of course I’ll do it if we can make it work.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “I really appreciate what you’re doing for him.” 

John thought about admitting that he was truly doing this for Mycroft and not for Sherlock, but he couldn’t figure out a way to put it into words.

“No one should be alone with something like this,” he settled on, it was vague enough to mean whatever Mycroft wanted, or needed, it to.

Mycroft nodded and then they became quiet. The years living with Sherlock had taught John the art of not needing small talk, but the silence with Mycroft felt pressing and uncomfortable. John felt the urge to ask about the memories that made Mycroft stand by Sherlock’s side or if Mycroft had any idea of why Sherlock had started using many years ago. Not to mention all the question about what had happened to put the three of them in this hospital room tonight. But he stayed quiet, imagining that Mycroft needed the silence.

After almost an hour, Mycroft cleared his throat. “I put a fortune into perfecting the London needle exchange program.”

It was an odd way to break the silence, John thought, and looked at Mycroft. When he did, he saw an enormous amount of guilt and inadequacy radiating from him. It didn’t suit Mycroft at all. 

“This isn’t your fault,” John quickly ensured, encouragingly continuing with: “And the program is a very good thing.”

“I know…. Thank you,” Mycroft voice was sincere, but John was sure he thought he could have done more. John always did. 

“Do you want some tea?” John suggested after a glimpse at the clock – it was a good bit past 3 a.m. 

“Yes, please. One sugar,” Mycroft said. 

John got on his feet, feeling stiff and a bit dizzy, but it was a relief to leave the room and to see something else than Sherlock’s frostbitten face. It was also about time he left Mycroft alone with his brother. The tea was more a reason to leave than anything else.

Nothing was open at this hour. The night nurse – Chris – showed him to a vending machine, even gave him a bit of change. For the longest time John just stared at the machine, unable to perform the simple task of pressing a button. Perhaps the shock just hit him, maybe the severity of the situation came crushing down or perhaps he was just tired beyond what a human mind could bear. 

When the first cup filled up with a see-through, brown liquid, he realised he couldn’t bring the puppet master of the government tea from a vending machine. Half a second later he came to his senses, Mycroft wouldn’t care where the tea came from. Not tonight at least.

Nothing had changed when he returned to the room, Sherlock was still unconscious and Mycroft was still looking like the weight on his shoulders had doubled tonight. Mycroft thanked him for the tea – even though John had forgotten about the sugar – and John sat back in his chair. His plan about leaving was since long gone, because, as he had said, no one should be alone with something like this. 

Not even the silent ruler of the United Kingdom.

* * *

“Satisfied?” Sherlock sat behind John’s desk, spinning back and forth as if he was seven years old.

John walked from the door with this month’s test results in his hand, reading them over the edge of his glasses. 

“Almost,” he said, with a small sigh. “Your viral load is undetectable, but…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence, Sherlock knew the rest already since John had said it out loud every other time. There was nothing to say about the HIV treatment because, from what John could tell, Sherlock followed it with the same determination as he did anything else he put his mind to. When it came to the addiction that had caused all this though, John still had much to wish for.

Sherlock was, if you asked him, clean now. If you asked John, he could go so far as to admit it was better than it had been in years. A close examination of Sherlock’s body had finally convinced him that Sherlock really had stop taking the drugs intravenously, but the same examination had proved that he had changed back to snorting. John couldn’t imagine this was because both he and Mycroft had pointed out that passing needles around when you knew you were HIV-positive was a criminal act. It was hard to believe Sherlock would stop doing something because it was illegal, but John could easily see how he would stop doing it to protect the people around him who hadn’t a Mycroft or a John to help them to a treatment. Yes, John still had some high thoughts left of Sherlock.

“You know,” Sherlock said, pausing intentionally to make John look at him. “You could just trust me.”

“Yeah, well, you know…” John handed over the test result to Sherlock, pushing his glasses back in place. “You could just start being trustworthy.”

“Touché.” Sherlock smiled, looking through the paper he was given with the same mask of disinterest as usual. John was pretty sure he cared though, otherwise he wouldn’t demand to see it every time.

Sherlock coming to John once a month – much more often than necessary, really – to check his viral load was a part of the deal. Mycroft (through John) provided Sherlock with the necessary medication as long as Sherlock could prove he took them. The closest thing they could come to proving it was to check regularly, but it was far from 100 % certain. Viral loads could stay low without treatment and they could be elevated with it.

It had been suspiciously easy to convince Sherlock to take this deal. For the first two-three month after Sherlock had been hospitalised with hypothermia John had thought it was only to get Mycroft off his back, but now Sherlock had been living with HIV for fourteen months and he still kept on coming to John. Without complaining. Without trying to worm his way out of it. The first seven month without even rolling his eyes or talking back to John. 

Since both John and Mycroft were realists when it came to dealing with addicts “getting clean” hadn’t been a part of the deal. They wanted Sherlock to have access to the medication and they didn’t want to have to compromise and change the deal if Sherlock couldn’t hold his part. Cutting down on the drug use had all been on Sherlock’s initiative, of course neither John nor Mycroft complained. 

“Done?” Sherlock asked, tossing the paper on the desk when he had read them.

“Yeah, yeah…. You’re free to go,” John said, waving him out of his chair. 

No result.

“Get up,” John ordered in a pretend-strict voice.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said, saluting John, but not obeying. 

John pretended to be irritated, but in all honesty, these short, silly arguments very the closest thing they had to “the way it was before”. John liked these sessions, but at the same time he hated them, since they reminded him of what he had lost. It was hard, close to impossible, for them to socialise in any other way. The silences were uncomfortable and the conversations they forced were shallow. John dreaded the appointments every month, but if nothing else, it calmed his conscience and he felt like he helped Mycroft. When he really needed to motivate himself to do it, he assured himself that keeping Sherlock healthy kept the country’s economy stable.

“I have other patients,” John said.

“Yes, yes, you’re very important,” Sherlock said, jumping on his feet. 

Finally. 

“See you next week,” John said, seating himself in the chair before Sherlock could take it again.

“Next week?” Sherlock looked surprised. “But everything looked fine.”

“Did I say next week? I meant next month,” John corrected himself, feeling just a small sting of shame. Would it be that horrible seeing Sherlock next week already? Yes, he realised, it would.

“See you in March, John,” Sherlock said with a smirk, leaving the room. 

John watched the door for a while after Sherlock had left, wondering what was worst: seeing Mary die though she had fought to live, or seeing Sherlock live such a self-destructing life. One thing was clear to John though, every time Sherlock left, a small part of him wished that he wouldn’t come back and that was probably the worst thing of them all.


End file.
